Page 76 of Golden Eagle

Alexei had the urge to tighten his own robe as well, but resisted. “You’re sure you never told him anything important?”

“Lex, I swear.”

“But he knows who I am.”

“Like I said: you look like your parents. And you haven’t exactly been…secretive…about your ancestry.”

He winced. There had been a time or two, in the last decades, when he’d maybe bragged a little. Used his name for clout. Back when he’d thought his human identity would sway immortal kind. And vampires did love to gossip, perhaps even worse than people; they had longer, more stable memories, anyway. “You might have another point.”

“What I’ve not been able to figure out,” Dante said, gesturing to his centuries’ worth of work, “is why you and your family matters to Gustav. Nor have I had any success in figuring out whoheis. And more and more, I think he might besomeone.”

Not a comforting thought.

“We know he’s German,” Alexei said.

“Or so he says. I’m proof positive that accents can be affected and adopted, and names can be changed.”

Alexei swallowed.

“As discreetly as I’ve been able, I’ve asked around about him, and no one has a clue where he’s come from: not what city, and not which century.”

“He probably has his reasons for wanting to start over with a new identity. You did.”

“Yes.” Dante smiled sympathetically. “But I also haven’t been siccing a wolf on innocent humans, either.”

Alexei’s next breath was shaky. “Yeah. Damn. I really hate when Nikita is right.”

Dante grinned. “I’m starting to think I’d enjoy meeting him.”

“He wouldn’t like you.”

“I can be very charming.”

“Charm has zero effect on him. Unless you’re a blond Russian werewolf named Sasha.”

“Ooh, now I’m immensely curious.”

Alexei’s stomach rumbled, and he realized he was starving. He lifted his head, and realized it was dark beyond the window. Shit, how many hours had he spent? Many, if the numbness in his ass and legs was any indication. His third, and perhaps most important realization, was that he’d spent all day poring over history books with Dante, and that he might, during that time, have made a friend.

Speaking of friends…

“Shit. Lanny,” he muttered, getting to his feet. Which were full of pins and needles, so he staggered a bit, and Dante held out his hands as if to catch him. “What time is it?”

“Um.” Dante peered up at the clock on the desk. “Just after nine.”

“Shit. I have to go.”

Dante stood with his own degree of difficulty, robe settling around his long legs, brows notched. “Why? What’s the matter?”

“There’s a thing I have to go to. For a friend.”

“What sort of thing?” Dante asked, with the air of someone who wouldn’t be shaken off easily.

“It’s a fight. The matches over behind the old Brooks building.”

“Oh.” Clearly, Dante had heard of them. His eyes went wide. “Your friend is fighting there?”

He was so openly curious that Alexei turned away, and headed back toward the master bedroom, where his clothes still lay crumpled on the floor. “He’s more of my–” he said, over his shoulder, wincing to himself “–my offspring. As it were.”

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